Sound Barrier
by cuter-than-a-guinea-pig
Summary: Following the end of the war both Farrier and Collins struggle to reconcile their experiences over the past six years with a world now at peace. But peace looks very different these days. Fallout from the atomic bombs is felt throughout the world and the race to prevent another drop has begun as the Iron Curtain spreads across Europe.
1. Chapter 1

"And how are you feeling this morning?"

Suddenly light headed and disoriented. And the ringing was louder, an incessant souvenir from his time in Europe. Farrier's mind tried to keep pace with it. Stay on rhythm. He was once good at deciphering the chaos in his head, knowing where and when to rack focus to resolve concrete forms out from their fuzzy white backdrop. Right now, it was all a blur. His mind raced but it passed nothing or maybe it passed something but that something sped away again so quickly that its pieces fragmented and blurred into the next something. His brows furrowed, and he shifted in his seat. Had they succeeded in taking his mind, the SS thugs who guarded the prison camp where he had been held. No. He would not give them the satisfaction. Violence was their only tactic. The British military, however, maybe they were the ones to blame. They had built a soldier, a fighter pilot, not a man. They had crafted a mind capable of shielding bombers from enemy fire, for directly engaging the Luftwaffe, twenty thousand kilometers above the earth, at speeds that no other human had reached and lived to talk about. They had trained him for enemy capture and torture and interrogation but never for rescue, liberation, victory. It was as if they had expected to lose or to lose him or expected this war to go on forever because they never trained him for after. But after was exactly where Farrier found himself. The world had slowed. Young women in white uniforms bustled about him, reassured him, tended to his needs. He had been pulled back from the front line. His shattered leg was useless in combat. He was returned to civilization despite knowing nothing about it. His eyes were still sharp though and they saw that civilization moved at a slower pace. His Spitfire had moved at 800km/hr. The London Underground maxed out at 60. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe his mind wasn't broken. Maybe it was just incompatible with its new reality. His mind had been trained to keep up with his plane and the planes fighting for airspace around him. Questions from a stranger sitting across a desk were about strategy, about the strength of the British force. They were not personal. They did not concern his own well being. So how was he feeling this morning?

"Fine." Farrier shrugged.

"Fine? Not anxious? Not excited?"

"No."

"What about pain level? Where are you at today?"

Nurses had been posing this question to him for the past four months and Farrier still hadn't figured out how to answer it. You were either dead, bedridden, or not. A soldier did not exist without pain. Feeling it was a good thing. It meant the limb was attached, the brain was still inside the skull. The ringing meant he could still hear. Civilians didn't understand this. He presumed the war nurses had at one point but now that there was no war, they seemed to be the first to revert. He had learned their game. A number less than four and they would move on to their next patient. Five through seven would prompt further interrogation. Eight, nine, and ten would send a higher ranking official, maybe the doctor, and if you were lucky, more morphine. Greater than ten would earn you a smile and a flirt. He was a one on most days, an eleven when the monotony became too much. Some days he was surprised at how much damage a pretty girl with a prettier smile could repair. Other days he was surprised at how little effect their fluttery eyelashes and playful chides had. Most days though it was all just white. White uniforms, white bedding, white bandages, white walls. White noise. And ringing.

"I don't know."

She smiled, set down her clipboard and folded her hands on top of it. "That's the first time you've answered that honestly, Mr. Farrier."

His eyes shot to hers. He hadn't been Mr. in fifteen years.

"That's a sign if any," she continued. "If you need a place to stay tonight until you can catch a train, we still have some billets available."

"I'm just in London."

"Oh, of course. East end, yes?"

Farrier nodded.

"That'll be nice. Home at last."

Again, he nodded.

She tilted her head as if waiting for more before seemingly giving up. She picked up her pen and scrawled it across the bottom of the form on her clipboard. He reached for his pack and pulled the strap over his shoulder. Then he reached for the cane leaning on the arm of his chair. He pushed himself to his feet and hobbled out of her office and out of the hospital. His steps were slow but deliberate. He hesitated only when he reached the stairs to the underground. He paused at the top and re-adjusted his pack to his back, and then to his left, and then back to his right. Its weight threw off his balance.

"Sir? Sir?"

It wasn't until the man stepped down onto the step below him and moved to block his path that Farrier noticed him. His cheeks were still round. He was young. Too young to have fought, he reckoned, but then again that had been a frequent thought when faced with new recruits.

"Would you like a hand? I can carry your pack."

"A soldier carries his own pack."

"Of course, sir. I meant no offense. My brother served. Killed on D-Day. I just thought…"

The ringing grew louder, as if it was echoing out of the stairwell. The disorientation was back. Farrier blinked to clear his head but the stairs twisted further with each new frame. He clutched the hand rail and shrugged the pack from his shoulder. The boy took it and reached out a hand but quickly retracted it. Farrier smiled. He could still enact fear. He could still conjure some respect.

He nudged his damaged leg down a step and down another. The boy kept pace, always just one step ahead. He followed Farrier to the empty platform and waited beside him. The damp air hung heavy and stale around him. A few feet away a steady drip of water fell from the ceiling. Electricity buzzed along the rails, like a bombing contingent headed for the continent, hundreds of planes, Hurricanes, Halifaxes, Spitfires, flying in tight formation. Loud cracks popped from the rails every so often as the electricity jumped between them. An anti-aircraft gunner had connected and somewhere amongst the formation a plane was tumbling out of the sky. The buzz rattled on. The contingent moved forward towards the target.

A low hum came through the black tunnel where the platform ended and the tracks disappeared into the depths. Farrier turned towards the growing sound, the horizontal white tiles that lined the walls guiding his eye. He willed its approach, something to drown the ringing. The train rounded a curve in the track and light cut through the black. Enemy fire. Then the ground below him began to vibrate. The rumble traveled up his cane and into his wrist. It shook the healing bones in his shattered leg. A hit. He dropped his cane and stumbled sideways into the boy.

"Are you okay, sir?" They boy asked, breaking a more dramatic fall and helping to right him.

"'M fine. Fine. Cane," he said.

"Right. Sorry, sir," the boy said and hastily picked it off the concrete.

"And my pack."

"Right." He hesitated. "I could carry it for you. It's really no trouble. Where are you headed?"

"Home. Where you should be."

"It's only four, sir."

"No, no. I can take care of myself. Did it for the past six years, didn't I."

"Of course."

Farrier took his pack and swung it back over his shoulder and limped onto the train car just before the doors slid closed. He was grateful to find a free seat before it lurched forwards. He looked out the window and saw the boy still standing there watching him. His chest tightened and sunk. He shouldn't have snapped at him. He lifted his right hand to his brow in salute. The boy smiled and returned it and then he was gone as Farrier was pulled into the black tunnel.

* * *

He got off six stops later and hobbled slowly up the station stairs. The sky was darkening and the streets were starting to fill with commuters on their way home. Shoes clattered impatiently on the sidewalk behind him and when there was a break in the cars, they would step into the street to rush past him. He took up too much space. He was an inconvenience. His mind raced too fast for this new world but his body moved too slow.

The streets looked different. Buildings he remembered were gone and new towers stood in their place. He wasn't surprised. His landlord had left him a letter with the RAF offices. His flat had been hit in the Blitz. His landlord had salvaged what he could and was storing it for him. His building would not have been the only casualty. He passed a lot that was still rubble. He stopped and leaned against the lamp post that stood in front of the property. The joint in his knee was beginning to ache. He studied the twisted iron and splintered wood trying to remember what it had once been. He had once passed the building every day. Now he didn't know if it had been shops or apartments or the doctor's office. A grey dust coated the debris. Farrier couldn't tell if it was from the original hit or from the rebuilding going on around it. Both, he supposed but really it didn't matter. They were the same source. A changing world that so readily destroyed that there was no longer time to repair the broken pieces. Better to bury the mangled parts in the suffocating smoke and ash.

* * *

"Farrier! It's good to see you, lad. You look well. You look really well." Farrier raised an eyebrow. With every step he took, his limp grew worse and he leaned further and further into his cane. By the time he knocked on the door his torso must have been at a forty-five-degree pitch. "Come now, lad. You were in a prison camp for four years. Some men walk out of those looking like corpses. Now come in. Sit down." Mr. Finchley took his pack and stepped aside, ushering him into the sitting room. His reading chair was positioned opposite Mr. Finchley's sofa by the fire place that was cracking lightly.

"I see you've helped yourself."

"Waste not, want not."

He shuffled around the coffee table and stumbled on the rug. When he sat though, he sat slowly and delicately as if half expecting the chair to give way beneath him. The legs held though and the cushions formed around his body and pulled him deeper. He let out a satisfied hum. Off his feet and reunited with a little piece of home, maybe the only piece of home that remained. The feeling was similar to when Canadian troops had stormed the prison camp or when the transport plane had touched down in Dover or when the train had pulled into Kingscross. Relief and warmth. Like he could breathe again. Tears had welled in his eyes on each occasion. They did so again. The dim room, lit only by the small orange flame, blurred before him. Mr. Finchley had disappeared to prepare a pot of tea and Farrier let cool drops pool, let them sooth his tiered eyes. He thought he was past the emotion of survival but something felt different this time. He let his head fall back against the chair. Mr. Finchley called from the kitchen and Farrier called back with his order: just black thanks. It went quiet again. Not silent but the quite of homely puttering. More peaceful than quiet really but the tinkering was something you could fall asleep to and so he let his mind drift.

The fire popped and he startled. A large ember jumped out of the hearth onto the wood floorboards. Farrier reached for his cane and pushed it back to the stone. Foot steps creaked from the hallway and he wiped the tears from his eyes. The old man entered the small room holding two cups of tea and Farrier tried to push himself upright to meet him half way.

"Sit, lad, sit."

"You shouldn't fuss over me."

"A little fuss is good for a man my age. I was out everyday helping clear rubble after the bombings."

"Should've known a shoddy job when I saw it," Farrier said with a smile. "Passed at least three lots that haven't been touched yet."

Mr. Finchley chuckled. "Government's not paying. What do they expect. I fixed the leaky tap of yours and then boom, Germans blow the thing to pieces. Water main shooting a mile high. Flooded the whole street. How's that for a drip? But we managed, we managed. Would have been worse without you boys in the sky."

Farrier gave a small nod. He wished for nothing more than to have piloted one of those planes in the skies over London. He dropped his gaze to the cup of tea in his hand. Heat poured from the porcelain over his skin. It burned. Instead of setting it down, he brought it to his lips and sipped. His tongue curled away, refusing to swallow, an act which would immerse it in the scalding liquid. His gums were left to burn.

"What do you recon now?

Forced to speak again, he swallowed. The hot liquid rushed over the roof of his mouth stripping a layer of pink skin as a crashing wave strips the sand from a beach. He shook his head. "Don't know. I think London has moved on without me.

* * *

Farrier spent the next two nights on Mr. Finchley's sofa. Despite it being far cushier than the hospital cot, he did not sleep. For hours, he lay in the dark, his tongue playing the piece of dead skin dangling from the roof of his mouth, pushing it back and forth, sometimes trying to tear it off completely. When exhaustion finally won, he was always jolted awake by German shouts, and German guns, and German bombs. Black swastikas pierced through the center of red maple leaves and bled outward, swallowing his saviours before swallowing him. Nights in the hospital on the other side of the city had been no different. He needed out.

He left on the third day. He limped to the train station and purchase a one-way ticket to Hemsby, a small village on the South-Eastern coast.

The train rumbled through London, through the buildings that exploded and crumbled down on him in his nightmares. Farrier closed his eyes, the hum and the gentle vibration reminded him of his Spitfire. It was the last place he had felt safe and he had set it on fire. He had stood and watched the flames burn through the chill of the early night air. The teal blue sky, suddenly black, against the bright orange and yellow. It was blinding. And then he was surrounded, guns pointed at him from all sides, commands shouted at him that he did not understand. He tried to run. He knocked a rifle out of one soldier's hands. He knocked another soldier to the ground. The sand was deep though and his feet sank too far into it with each step. His legs felt as if they were fighting through on opposing ocean tide. A soldier caught up to him. He waited for the bullet he could see poised down the barrel of the rifle. Instead, pain shot though his right leg and he collapsed onto the sand as the soldier continued to strike him with his baton. He tried to crawl away but the soldier was relentless, even as the flames from the burning plane charged towards them. He howled as the flames engulfed him and his eyes shot open.

A nightmare. Just a nightmare.

He was quick to come down from them these days. A few deep breaths, a pan of his surroundings, each blink slow and methodical, as if he were taking a photograph, proof of reality. Across the isle, a woman read a newspaper, the front page headline: Sinews of Peace: Churchill warns of Iron Curtain. The seat across from him was empty and fabricated in dull blue and green stripes. Out the window green hills dotted with purple wild flowers rolled past. A white seagull glided across the blue sky, its wings still, stretched out wide, like those of a plane.

The salty smell of the sea washed over him as he stepped off the train. The small Hemsby platform was quiet enough he could hear the gulls call from above. The station house was just the way he remembered it from childhood visits to his grandparents: white siding, green roof, green doors, green window frames. His grandparents were long gone now though and as he limped into town, sun shown through the thin veil of his plan. Get out of London. That was what it amounted to. He remembered a hotel at the north end of the beach.

"We can have a room ready in about an hour, Sir. You can leave your bag if you want to wander through town or enjoy the beach."

"Thanks, but I'll stick to the pub."

* * *

"You serve?" the bartender asked as he poured him a scotch.

"Something like that."

"Hard to believe it's over."

Farrier hummed. He took a long sip of the amber drink placed in front of him. War talk required booze.

"I swear the airfield's busier now than it ever was. Look, there go all the girls."

Farrier turned in his seat. Passed the windows, a group of young women bounded, bundled in wool coats and mitts. His brow furrowed as his gaze followed the girls to the beach. Then a Spitfire shot across the horizon. It was low and its speed surprised even him. To the pub patrons, mostly middle age men, the girls seemed to be the real show. Though muffled, their enthusiastic shrieks could be heard through the glass window panes.

"What are they doing?"

"Something to do with a sound barrier, I think. I asked one of the lads once but he was well pissed at that point and I'm not the sharpest."

Farrier's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open, a small grin pulling across it. "They're trying to break it," he said. While he still had his wings, the sound barrier had been a myth of sorts. It was all theoretical, something pilots overheard engineers talking about in abstract aspirations. Maybe this would be the plane. Maybe this would be the engine. Maybe this would be the pilot. And then the war broke out and attention shifted.

"And what would that accomplish? Aside from amusing the local girls."

Farrier shrugged. It would be the greatest achievement in aviation history, the fastest man had ever flown.


	2. Chapter 2

Farrier spent that first evening in the pub. It was small and adorned with scuffed wooden tables and mismatched wooden chairs. Small lanterns sat at the center of each table beside an ash tray and glowed orange and faint off the warm wooden surrounds. The longer Farrier sat at the bar, the cozier the pub felt and the ringing in his ears dampened with each emptied glass.

He stumbled to his room just before midnight. Alcohol was hard to come by in captivity and the hospital and his tolerance had dipped. He flopped down on his bed as soon as it blurred into view. When he awoke the next morning, it was to a dry mouth and a dull headache. He groaned and cursed the world that had finally allowed him to sleep in exchange for waking in more pain. The ringing was back, and louder, making up for the few quiet drunken hours the night before. He sat up and the dull ache throbbed. The room spun and his stomach churned with it. The morning sun glistened in off the water like a knife to his cornea. He pulled the curtains closed but the room was still too bright. He stumbled back down to the dimly lit pub and sat down at the bar.

"Another scotch?" the bartender asked.

"Good man." Farrier said. "You know if they still have their blackout curtains?"

The bartender laughed and filled his glass.

Over the following days, this became his routine. Drink all day, stumble to his room, pass out, wake up, feel ill, and start drinking again to numb it all. This wasn't an escape. This was a hospice. At least in Hemsby, Farrier didn't know anyone. There would be no one to witness him wilt.

Sunday morning the pub was closed. Farrier blinked confused at the sign on the door. "Bloody Christians." He turned to walk back up to his room but the stairs warped and twisted. Even they were too much for his hungover state. With the aid of a steadying hand on the wall, Farrier turned and walked towards the front door of the hotel.

The morning air washed over him like a desperately needed shower. It was cool and gentle and reminded him of the nurses who pressed cold compresses to his head. He took a deep breath. And then another to settle the nausea and ease the throbbing. The sun was still too bright. It pierced him like the open and eager smiles of the young women who had tended to him. He returned their pleasantries while willing them away and wishing to crawl under his hospital bed and live out his life in the shadows with the other monsters. Because that's what he was. A monster. During the war he was a weapon until he was captured and caged like a beast. And now he was a drunk, berating the morning sun. He doubted he would ever be able to readjust to its light. Part of him had always been in the shadows. Those smiles from women had unnerved him long before the war. At least he had a suitable excuse now.

He raised a hand to his brow to shield his eyes and crossed the road to walk along the boardwalk on the opposite side. A few blocks on, a set of stairs lead down to the sand and Farrier limped down them. He walked towards the pier and took shelter from the sun beneath it. He leaned against one of the wood pillars and slid down it, stretching his legs out wide before him and resting him cane between them. The sand beneath him was cool and soothing like the ocean air. It was still damp from high tide, shielded here from the drying rays of the sun. It was more like mud, but Farrier didn't mind. His clothes were already grimy. Grease, Tabaco smoke, booze sloshed over the rims of glasses, and sprinkles of urine splashed back from urinals and brick ally walls were woven in between the worn threads. It was a grime born of pubs and the beings who were once men that lived in them.

Farrier looked onwards through the small window, framed by the pier above and its supporting pillars on the either side, into a world of sand and ocean and sky, of brown grit washed into clear, crisp blue.

The whisper of the ocean lulled him like his engine used to, constant, rhythmic, until he was so used to the drone that it became part of his stasis state, fading from his senses. He closed his eyes and let himself drift on the air currents coming in off the water. He could feel it almost, like he was flying again, in training, learning to glide and land without an engine. The wind was blowing south westerly, hitting him at ten o'clock. It was gentle and steady. The pillars of the pier stretched out before him, providing a flight path into that ideal world contained within the frame. He shifted his right hand in a gentle arc where it rested, open palm, atop his cane, angling it to the left. Lift the left aileron, dip the right, bank into the wind. But just slightly, just to hold the line. When he reached the end of the pier and the sky would open up around him and he would climb into the blue. His left hand curled into the sand and dragged it back, opening the throttle as he rocked his cane back towards his chest. The wind would be stronger at higher altitudes. It was deceptive that way. Stronger crosswinds required a steeper bank. More lift on the left aileron, more dip on the right. Once he reached his new cruising altitude, high, away from the seagulls and their cawing, where the airspace was his to rule, he would level the pitch. Ease both hands forward again and maintain the bank to continue tracking straight, dead out over the ocean.

The loud woosh of an engine, knocked Farrier out of his lull. His airspace had been intruded upon. His left thumb pushed down into the sand, pressing the radio control on the side of the throttle. "Fortis Two, we have company." A Spitfire zoomed across his narrow frame. Farrier leaned forward to try and follow its flight path but his sight line was restricted by pillars. Just like his cockpit. All you could see was your own nose and wings and that was only if the piss poor glass hadn't gone opaque in the sun glare. It was a wonder they managed to hit a target. "Lost'em. He was heading south along the coast. Low on the horizon. And fast. Aided by the tailwind." A second plane followed minutes later. Farrier closed his palm around his cane and moved his thumb down over the gun trigger. He concentrated on the hum of the engine, the change in pitch as it approached the pier. The planes crossed his line of fire for only a fraction of a second and the bullets had to travel over a kilometer out. He had to time it just right. Even with the wind working in his favour, Farrier doubted he could ever make the shot.

On the ninth pass, a pilot broke rank. The engine sound changed. Farrier leaned over and looked down the beach. The sand was dotted with young women huddled together in small groups, their heads tilted up, hands pointing to the sky. With a groan and an ache, Farrier stood and walked out from under the pier. The pilot was climbing. His plane, in stark relief in the otherwise clear sky, was almost vertical. His ascent was slowing, about to stall, gravity's short leash about to run out. Farrier counted him down. "Four, three, two…" The propeller stopped. The plane twisted in the air. Its right wing fell and its left wing rolled over so that the nose began to plummet towards the water. There were gasps and shrieks from down the beach. Farrier's stomach dipped and he smiled. Stalling out on a climb and falling back to earth was a feeling like no other. Even as a spectator he could feel the rush of it, amplified as the plane picked up speed, gravity's punishment for the attempted escape. The engine roared back to life and propellers spun back into a blur. The pilot was well past the standard point of recovery but still his nose pointed down. Speed, Farrier reckoned. He was trying to gain speed. A dangerous game to play. Gravity did not take well to being subjugated to grifts of others.

The pilot forfeited. Farrier watched the nose of the plane level off and pull up again. He overcorrected, losing his speed. He didn't continue his pass down the beach but instead made a wide circle out over the ocean and returned to the airfield.

The girls settled back into the sand and the beach was quiet again. The ringing in his ears picked up to compensate. He felt eyes on him. In the absence of the planes, his lop-sided form was the next best spectacle. He had never been the best dresser. The only suit he owned was his military dress blues. Youth and a smile had saved him before. But the war had aged him and his week-old beard hid what remained. It also itched.

He needed a shower.

Farrier walked back to the hotel. Despite its three-stories which towered over the shop fronts, the pale blue building almost blended into the sky. A large sign hung vertically from the front: Oceanview Promenade. The pub had re-opened, but Farrier continued up to his room. It was small. The double bed dressed in white linens took up most of the floor space. An end table sat on one side and a set of dresser drawers on the other. There was a writing desk under the large window and a narrow wardrobe opposite the foot of the bed. The walls were papered with a faint blue and white stripe and a painting of a marina hung beside the door. It was designed for a quaint beach holiday. Farrier could picture the young couple on their honeymoon, her in a sun dress, him in a short sleeve cotton button up. He felt out of place. He was the off-season guest.

He gathered his shaving kit and took it down the hall to the bathroom. He undressed and stood in-front of the mirror. He didn't recognize his reflection. Dark circles drooped below his bloodshot eyes. His shoulders hunched. His stomach protruded. His arms hung limp and his pale skin sagged off the bone. This was not the man who trained the first round of new recruits when the war broke out. This was not the man who turned arrogant, naïve boys into fighter pilots. This was not the man who carried on south across the Channel on his reserve tank knowing there was no fuel to get home. No, this man was not worthy of the His Majesty's Royal Air Force.

He stood under the shower spray until it ran cold and then stood longer. He didn't know what he was trying to wash off. The grime, the prison, the war? The scotch? He trimmed the scraggle from his beard but stopped short of shaving it off. His cheeks would look too hollow without it.

It wasn't until later that evening that he returned to the pub. He picked up a newspaper from the lobby and ordered a cup of tea when he took his seat at the bar. It was louder than usual, the smoke in the air denser, but his seat was still free.

"Taking the day off?" the barkeep asked.

"Something like that."

The barkeep picked the small copper kettle off the shelf behind him and disappeared through a swinging door. Farrier opened the paper. 'Iron Curtain Descends on Europe." Farrier hummed. It had descended directly on top of him and trapped him beneath its immense weight. He flipped to page five for the article and Churchill's full speech. The beginning read as a plea to the United States to pull Britain along on her rise to glory. The United States, after all, already had a special relationship with the _Dominion_ of Canada so it seemed only fair to extend this relationship to big brother. The kettle whistled from the back and Farrier furrowed his brow. This was the man who had held strong against Nazi Germany from the beginning, when even King Edward wavered. This was the man shored up their island into the immovable object to rival Hitler's unstoppable force. Why step aside now?

The barkeep placed the cup and saucer before him and Farrier took a careful sip.

" _Twice in our own lifetime we have seen the United States, against their wishes and their traditions, against arguments, the force of which it is impossible not to comprehend, drawn by irresistible forces, into these wars in time to secure the victory of the good cause, but only after frightful slaughter and devastation had occurred. Twice the United States has had to send several millions of its young men across the Atlantic to find the war; but now war can find any nation, wherever it may dwell between dusk and dawn."_

That was why. Britain could not risk America retreating across the Atlantic again. War was brewing.

It was a sobering message. This time there would be no twenty-year armistice. Moscow had their pick of the spoils. It did not lie in ruins like Berlin at the end the Great War. Stalin did not need a recovery period. But Britain did, boke and hungry, it's Empire bleeding from open sores. The sea was Britain's greatest defence and though its waters had not fallen and its waves had not eased, those would not stop a plane carrying an atomic bomb.

Farrier finished his tea and set down his cup. The barkeeper promptly refilled it. "What do you make of all this?" he asked.

Farrier shrugged.

The barkeeper nodded towards the front corner of the pub. "They seem just as disinterested."

Farrier turned. The alcove of tables by the front window was taken up by a dozen men in uniform and a group of girls wearing bright red lipstick and low-cut tops. Half empty glasses covered the table, forgotten once the new round was bought. One of the men stood quickly and stumbled, knocking several glasses to the floor. Usually startling, the shattering glass seemed right at home amongst the shouts and cheers and the girls quick to giggle.

Farrier turned back to his tea. These were not the men who needed to be interested. These were the pawns to be hurled head first across Europe, their skulls cracked open against Churchill's iron wall, their limp bodies pilled in a heap at its base. It was the men in the halls of Westminster who needed the barkeep's ire for it was those men who aimed and fired.

"I'd kick'em out if they didn't spend so much money." The barkeeper mumbled shaking his head.

Blond hair appeared in Farrier's peripheral, shining bright through the smoke haze that hung in the air. "Sorry, mate."

"No worries, lad," the barkeeper said passing a stack of napkins across the bar.

"Aye." The Scottish accent cut clear through the rowdy crowd.

Blue eyes flashed in memory.

It played back to him like a jittery film reel, like one of those Hollywood pictures they put on in the mess hall in the evenings. The image of the pilot bounced and flickered in and out of focus and frame, black and white apart from the bright blue of his eyes. By the time the image steadied, and Farrier looked up from the paper, the pilot was half way back to his table. Still, there was no mistaking him. Collins.

Suddenly, Farrier wished he had stayed in his room or had sat in one of the dark booths in the corner or that the smoke in the pub was thicker, thick enough to obscure him from view. It was like flying in fog. Before take off, pilots prayed for clear skies but soon realized that if you could see the enemy, the enemy could see you.

What would he see? The cane. The awkward way Farrier's injured leg jutted out. The ill-fitting cardigan that did little to hide his withering frame.

And what would Farrier see if he truly looked? For the past five years Collins had lived only within his mind, chained within the dark alcoves carved forcefully. Collins wasn't a monster in those dungeons. He was the light. His blue eyes cut through the bleak stone and shone of the sea and the sky and home. And so Farrier had shackled him to his cell wall like a lantern to witness and suffer what the fates were to bring. A human shield. He was no better than his guard. This is what the strength of a soldier required. The pilot he trained was not the guardian he had created in his mind. What did Collins know? What conversations had been real? What glances had lingered? What contact had been made? Farrier had some idea but there were grey blurs, lines intentionally erased during the rougher moments, the cold winter nights, the days without food, when his body came out of shock and the pain began to siege. His excuse, Collins had gone down in the Channel, no shore in sight. He was dead. They would never come face to face again.

The ringing overtook the noise in the pub.

Farrier paid his tab and retreated quickly to his room. He lit a cigarette and took a long, slow drag to settle the twinge in his fingers and the spinning in his head. He sat on the desk in front of the open window and listened to the water rock the small beach town to sleep. The sun had set and pulled the blue from the sky and the ocean leaving behind a black void. To the south, at the tip of a rocky peninsula, a light house stood. A soft white light rotated in its tower, a silent warning, or perhaps a beacon, for ships at sea. Its glow was quickly swallowed by the night.

The door to the pub creaked and Farrier watched from above as Collins stepped out into the cool night air. He lit his own cigarette and Farrier smiled. That was real. Those quiet moments at the beginning of the war where he and Collins walked out to the low stone wall at the edge of the airfield and passed a cigarette back and forth. Sometimes they talked, base gossip, mission debrief. Other times they didn't.

Collins meandered across the street to the metal rail that ran along the boardwalk. The light house caught his blond hair with each pass, a low crescent moon in the moonless sky.


	3. Chapter 3

Farrier watched Collins from the window until the door to the pub burst open and the other pilots tumbled out. Collins turned when they called his name but stayed against the rail. One of the young women skipped over across the road and looped her arm through his, giving him a tug. He smiled and stamped out his cigarette before allowing her to lead him up the road with the others.

Farrier didn't sleep that night without the drowsy spell of alcohol. The flight over the Channel played in a loop in his mind. Collins' voice cut through the ringing in his ear but it no more soothing. "He's on me." "I'm going down." The words were rushed. He was trying to hide the panic in them.

He woke early and walked down the boardwalk to the pier and then out to its end. Grey clouds hung low in the sky. The morning wind was bitter and relentless against every inch of exposed skin. The waves crashed against the pillars below his feet, angry.

He waited though until the planes began their test fights. They started the same as they had the previous day. One by one, they zoomed past the beach, low and fast, before making a wide turn over the ocean and returning to base. The sixth plane broke the pattern. He came in slower than the others and then climbed. Farrier strained his neck to follow him until he stalled out and began to plummet.

"Steady, steady," he mumbled. Smoke plumed from the engine and the plane disappeared within it. "Ease it up. Come on, ease up."

The nose did not level out though and Farrier stood in terror and shock as the plane and its pilot raced towards the ocean. They pierced the waves like a bullet through flesh, silently, instantly swallowed. The only trace of impact was the faint smoke trail, barely visible against the grey clouds, like the trickle of blood on a dark uniform. It was benign almost, cruelly deceptive of the horror obscured from view just below the surface.

Shrieks rang from the beach below but the ocean offered nothing. Waves rolled over the spot where the plane had been swallowed, washing away evidence of the wreckage beneath. Farrier kicked off his shoes, climbed up on the wooden rail, and dove into the water.

Adrenaline was a funny thing. It had kept him alert during dog fights. It had kept him conscious in the POW camp. Now, it carried him, against the incoming tide, to the sinking plane.

Thick, black oil coated the surface above the wreckage and Farrier plunged, head first, into the slick. Against the sting of salt water, he pried open his eyes, pushing deeper and deeper until he spotted the plane. The propellers were gone, as was the left wing, but the cockpit was intact. Farrier slid open the hatch and unbuckled the body slumped over the center control. He hooked his arms beneath the pilot's and kicked for the surface, the sun's guiding light struggling to pierce the clouds and the oil.

Farrier gasped as he broke through the slick. He was out of shape and pilot's body was limp and heavy, the flight boots strapped to his feet like cement blocks. Blinking the salt water from his eyes, he saw the pilot for the first time, Collins.

A wave crashed over them and washed oil and sea water into Farrier's lungs. He coughed and sputtered, grasping desperately at the surface, willing for something to hold onto. There was only water though and it slipped between the fingers of his right hand while Collins slipped from his left.

Maybe this was to be it. Soldiers weren't meant to survive wars. Farrier had always imagined dying in the sky. A hit to the engine causing the fuel tank to explode. His body blown to fragments and scattered in that secret world above the clouds. Fireworks, instant and awe striking. Drowning was a death the navy. But maybe this wasn't so bad. Buried at sea. Entombed with Collins amongst the twisted metal of the Spitfire, rocked to sleep by the tide. Here, they would be together.

The ache in his arms boiled and Farrier let himself slip under. It was quiet below the surface. And it was just as blue and peaceful as the sky.

A muffled thunder rattled overhead and it seemed to vibrate through him. The salt began to sting again. His lungs and throat convulsed, threatening to explode from his chest in a desperate search for oxygen. The blue water glowed red. A flare. A call back to base for aid. No man left behind. Hitler's war may be over but this was not yet peace time. A new war, Stalin's war, was beginning.

Farrier looped his hand through Collin's parachute harness, bettering his grip, and forced his way back to the surface. He found a break in the waves to take a real breath. And then another and his lungs resettled in their cavity. He kicked up his legs and hoisted Collins onto his chest. For serval moments Farrier floated idle, panting, while the water lapped at his ears. "I've got you, Collins. I've got you," he repeated and began to kick.

A row boat soon appeared at his side. The men in the boat hauled Collins up first and then helped him. He sat in the middle of the boat, Collins' head resting in his lap. Slowly he brought his hand to Collins' jaw. For a moment he let it rest there. He had stopped himself short so many times before.

The skin was smooth, freshly shaven to military standards. He ran his thumb back and forth over his cheek bone, usually so quick to pinken but now a chilling white.

Finally, Farrier closed his eyes and held his breath and dipped his forefinger into the tender hallow below Collins' jaw. Life pulsed faintly against his fingers. "I've got you."

Farrier was wiping the black oil from Collins' blond hair when two men in uniform waded out into the water and pulled Collins from him. They each wore a white arm band with a red cross in the centre. A wall of strangers stood on the beach in front of him, wide eyed and mouths agape. The paramedics weaved through them to the ambulance waiting up on the road. He stood and stumbled on the wet wood and again on the uneven sand.

"Sir, I fetched these for you. Thought you might need them."

Farrier blinked and looked at the crowd. A young woman stepped toward him carrying his cane and his shoes.

"Is there anything else I can get you?"

Behind her, up on the boardwalk, the ambulance pulled away. "No." Farrier shoved on his shoes, planted his cane in the sand, and pushed through the crowd. Water dripped from him as he walked leaving a trail down the boardwalk, past the hotel, and beyond the outskirts of the town.

* * *

"Collins," Farrier said to the guard stationed at the airfield gate. "I need to see Lieutenant Collins."

"I'm sorry, Sir. We don't allow visitors on base."

"I know, I know. I'm RAF. I pulled him from the plane."

"ID Card?"

"No, I mean I used to be RAF. I just need to see him."

Farrier watched the guard's eyes scan him up a down, his brow slightly raised. He must look a state, soaking wet, bum leg, unshaven, smelling of sweat and the sea, and breathing heavily. He straightened his shoulders and hoped his dripping clothes might give some validity to his story.

"Name?"

"Farrier. Thomas Farrier."

"Wait here." The guard sighed and stepped into the small office beside the gate.

A steady breeze blew inland from the ocean and Farrier shivered. His shirt clung to him like paste. It was suffocating. The water's grip, though withered and pale, clutched around his shoulders. Even on dry land, it pulled him towards the dark and the cold and the depths where he had almost slipped. It hadn't been the first time. The prison camp was just as dark, just as cold, just as damp. He had held Collins the closest in those moments. The thought of departing this world alone was too unsettling. But in those moments Collins had just been a projection, a shaky film reel played on a loop in his head. There was no limit to the hunger, the hypothermia, the beatings. Another frame was always waiting to be shuttled between the lamp and the lens. But Collins was no longer a projection and there was a limit to how long a brain could survive without oxygen. A pulse was only a small piece to the puzzle that was life. He needed to see him. He needed to know.

Farrier took a step forward and another and then ducked under the two-inch yellow barricade stretched across the road.

The barrack hospital was easy to find, marked with a red cross. He marched in, head high, past the nurse at the front desk. A dozen small cots dressed in white linens lay in two neat rows. Collins occupied the furthest one.

"Collins?" Farrier said softly as he reached the foot of the bed. The body before him looked stiff, as if it had been placed in its position by others instead of by the will of its own. He placed a hand on Collins' leg like he had so many times before to rouse him from his bunk before a flight. It had never been necessary but that hadn't stopped him from pretending. Farrier's vision blurred as tears pooled in his eyes, Collins slipping from focus. He rubbed circles into Collins' leg with his thumb. If only they were across the airfield in the barracks. If only the last five years had never happened and that they would be wheels up that night over the North Sea. Thirty-five miles off the coast and they would lose radio communication with the controller. They would be alone, together, in a sea of black. It was their own sound barrier.

Heavy boot steps sounded behind him. "Sir, you're going to have to come with us."

Farrier nodded and allowed himself to be led away.

As he was escorted off the airfield, they passed an open hanger. A group of pilots stood around a plane Farrier didn't recognize. It was shiny and metallic like a bullet. The nose was smooth. No propeller. It was sleek where the Spitfire had been scrappy. Its tail stretched wide between the twin booms. Better control. A jet engine protruded from he back of the fuselage. It looked almost as big. More power. More power than Farrier could imagine. There was a second cockpit tucked behind the first. A training model.

Collins had been the first student he had taken up in the training Spitfire.

* * *

 _Heavy and irregular breathing rattled through the radio. Farrier hesitated to turn the controls over. This was a kid. He had no idea what he was doing. This would end in tail spin towards the ground._

 _The longer Farrier held the controls though, the longer Collins had to picture that fiery wreck and the more erratic his breathing became. He needed a push. He needed Farrier's confidence. And he needed it now. "Your plane."_

" _My plane," Collins echoed._

 _Beneath his hand, Farrier felt resistance in the control. He took a deep breath and then another. He kept a steady rhythm and listened as Collins' breathing evened out and fell in sync._

 _Farrier guided him through sharp turns at high speeds, clouds that left them blind, and turbulence that rattled the controls._

" _Ever been above the clouds," Farrier asked._

" _No, sir."_

" _Take her up then."_

 _They climbed. The clouds hung dense and firm above them, like the tin roof on a hanger, caging them. But this, of course, was an illusion. The propeller tip slipped into the mist without resistance and carried the rest of the plane in tow. Collins leveled off as the white gave way to blue and flew along the smooth plane that cut across the sky, that cut them off from the world and the war brewing below. Nothing boiled or churned up above the clouds. It was still. Just sky, for hours in every direction._

" _The Saltire, it means stirrup in French, you know," Collins said. "It's a support. A leg up. That final push through the clouds," he said. His head panned slowly across the endless horizon. "This sort of makes you believe it all, the legend of Oengus and Saint Andrew."_

 _Farrier smiled. Scotland and England had been at peace for so long that their centuries of strife seemed like myths of kings and gods. Flying above the clouds was the closest he had felt to a religious revelation. From here, the ugliness of mankind was obscured, and the wonder of world allowed to shine. He had heard pilots talk of flying through the Alps and weaving through the snow-capped peaks that pierced the clouds. Little havens of untouched, untainted land. He hoped the coming war would take him to those mountains. He didn't care what ground situation would require such a mission. He didn't care if that called his own morality into question. He was no saint. "We could certainly use him. My plane."_

" _Your plane," Collins echoed._

 _Farrier took them higher and leveled off at 45,000 ft. "Don't get much higher. Air gets thin. Guns freeze up. Good for the return when you're out of ammo." He shut off the engine and the world went quiet. A chill ran up his spine. "Glide us home. Your plane."_

" _My plane."_

 _The silence amplified the beauty of the open sky and they both remained quiet until they re-entered the clouds. "What do you think_ _Corporal, will we work it out with Germany one day like we've worked it out with each other?"_

 _Collins laughed, loud and clear. "Spoken like a true Englishman. Ya think we've worked it out. Na, we just found a bigger enemy." They descended out of the clouds and Collins guided the plane back towards the base._

" _That right?"_

" _Buy me a round and I'll teach ya a thing or two?"_

 _Farrier smiled again. He was becoming quick to do so around Collins. Too quick. The air in the cock pit grew thick and too warm. The silent engine was no longer freeing. The peak of British ingenuity and might, was nothing but dead weight pulling them towards the earth. But the plane's nose remained level and the steady hum of Collins' breathing over the radio cut through the quiet._

* * *

Grey, bleak and ashy and cold metallic, had washed through the war years but, like sparks from the rear gunners of a Heinkel obscured by clouds, his target appeared.

A new plane, a new engine, a new pilot.

Farrier turned to the men escorting him off the airfield. "Who would I speak to about re-upping?"


	4. Chapter 4

"The offices are still in London." Farrier watched the soldier's eyes drop to his cane. "You'll have to sort that leg out."

His hand twitched around the curve of the wooden handle. The circumference of the arch was too small and his fingers bunched together, fighting for space. It dug into the loose gravel road and pulled at his arm, dragging him down into the earth. There were times now when his cane went unnoticed, simply an extension of his body. But that was a lie. It was a crutch used to prop up his twisted remnants. Pilots needed to be agile. He would be cramped into the cockpit for hours. His leg needed to bend and mold to the plane. It couldn't seize up. It couldn't erupt in siring pain and pull his attention. All this, of course, was after recertification which comprised of running, jumping, climbing, crawling. There was a reason he resigned.

* * *

Farrier entered the pub to applause. It was not thunderous. There were only a dozen or so patrons but still, drinks were set down, and conversations were abandoned while they turned and laid eyes on him. His leg twitched. The walk to the airfield was long. Drunken airmen stumbled back from the pubs night after night with ease but Farrier's body was ready to collapse.

He nodded hoping the gesture would be sufficient acknowledgement of their gratitude and limped to the stool at the end of the bar.

"First one's on the house," the barkeep said.

"Scotch."

"Is the pilot going to be okay?"

Farrier shrugged. "News travels fast."

The barkeep chuckled. "Small town. Which pilot was it?"

"Thought you didn't like them. Rowdy."

"Ah they're alright." The barkeep poured his drink and set in front of him. "Well, cheers, mate."

Farrier downed the scotch and then another. The day quickly became night and the night quickly became tomorrow and then the day after that. They bled into one another, the scotch binding them together like the soggy pages of an old newspaper, the ink transferring from one article to the next, until it could no longer be read. He felt on the brink of disintegration.

"Farrier."

The sound of his name roused him from his drink. He turned his head slowly. Collins stood at the end of the bar. His left arm was in a cast and his uniform jacket hung awkwardly around his shoulder. Despite this, he stood tall, his eyes unwavering from Farrier's own.

Shattering glass rang through the pub. Liquid seeped through his pants and ran down his leg.

"Collins." His voice was quiet and gruff and foreign. He coughed and cleared his throat.

Collins walked towards him and then crouched to the floor, picking up broken pieces of glass. Farrier reached for his cane but his hand only grasped air. It too, had been knocked to the ground.

"Looking for this?" Collins placed the cane into his searching hand and Farrier pushed himself up. The barkeep placed a stack of napkins on the bar and he picked them up before looking down at the wooden floor boards. They were very far away. His knee locked. "Well go on then," Collin said. He stood upright beside him now, his good arms cocked on his hip, eye brow raised. Farrier watched as a bemused smile cracked onto his face. The smile looked good on him. His skin was still pale and there were heavy circles under his eyes but that smile beamed with life.

Collins tilted his head and Farrier realized he had been silent for too long. "Fuck off." He tossed the napkins at Collins and began the process of re-taking his seat. His cane slipped on the wet floorboards and he stumbled. Collins caught him, a steadying hand on his arm.

"Woah. Haven't quite landed there, Lieutenant?"

Farrier jerked off the helping hand. "I landed just fine." He clambered onto the stool again. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Collins' arm stretched out waiting to catch him again. "Sit." Farrier said. He didn't like being fussed over. He didn't like being fussed over by Collins. It did nothing to clear the fog between what had been real and he had created out of desperation. "You've just survived a crash. Come on, sit."

Collins followed Farrier's orders and took the seat next to him. He rested his elbow on the bar and his hand over his mouth. The smile was gone. He slowly shook his head. "I still can't believe it. That you pulled me from the plane."

"What're having?"

"Tap is fine."

Farrier ordered two pints.

"It's good to see you back, son," the barkeep said to Collins as he placed the drinks in front them.

Collins gave him a nod and brought the beer to his mouth. Farrier did the same. He finished his glass and another as they talked about that day over Dunkirk and how a passing boat had picked Collins up and how Farrier had been captured after setting his plane down. They talked about all the days after that. And they talked about now, about how no one was prepared for the devastation caused by the atomic bomb and how the Soviet Union was in pursuit of one of their own.

"We're trying the break the sound barrier now. Everyone is. Faster the plane, the better chance we have of meeting the incoming bomber over the ocean, before it hits land. They've been retro-fitting the Spitfires to see what works and what doesn't." Collins looked down at his drink. "The new planes arrived that morning. It was our last run. I just wanted to prove it could be done."

"You think it can?"

Collins turned to him. "What do you reckon?"

Farrier shook his head. "I've been out of it too long."

"You always had the best instincts."

Farrier hid a smile behind his glass as he took a sip. "I suppose it's possible. Just a bit of turbulence."

"Bit of turbulence?" Collins exclaimed. He set his glass down hard and beer sloshed over the rim. A chuckle bubbled within Farrier and he bit the rim of his glass to contain it. "The prop rattles like it's seconds from flying off. The engine is smoking out. You're just waiting for flames to engulf it. And the controls have a mind of their own. You pull left, and they go right. Meanwhile you're careening towards the ground like some kamikaze knowing that if you pull up, the nose is going to dive further."

"You need the speed then? From the dive."

"It's the only way with the prop engines. Everyone knew it but recovery becomes near impossible so they're reluctant."

"But not you?"

"I've done it." He was looking down at his finger as he drew it through the small puddle of beer on the bar, a wide grin on his lips. Slowly, he turned to Farrier. "Well I think I have. It was during the Blitz. We were up, shooting down the bombers. One of them unloaded near Westminster. It looked like the river was on fire and the gothic halls were melting into it. I could see the time on Big Ben in the light of the flame. Twelve minutes past midnight. Past the tower were clouds. They blew in out of nowhere and then everything was just black. I took a small hit early on that knocked out my horizon. It took all my focus to keep my orientation. Left, right, up, down, it was all just black. I was paranoid I was going to crash into the clock tower and that its hands would be stopped forever at the time of my death. Not the worst legacy for a Scot. Stopping time on the city that invented it. But I climbed higher. It was ridiculous. I was already miles above it but your mind does weird things. And then sparks rained out of the black. The rear gunners of a Heinkel."

"Idiots."

"Idiots," Collins agreed. "I would have never known it was there. I banked to come back around on it. I connected and it exploded with a furry meant for the city below. I rolled to avoid the blast and started taking fire from somewhere else. I lost my orientation in it all and ended up in a sharp dive. Everything shook. I could barely keep hold of the controls. The vibrations felt like they would shatter bone. There was a boom and at first I thought I had crashed. But I kept going and then it felt like the air gave way and I was able to pull out. Gave the trees of some park a nice trim."

"You get a look at the ASI?"

"No." Collins sighed.

"Just as well. Those old things can't keep up at those speeds. They jump all over the place."

"They just need some tinkering."

"Don't know 'bout that. They're getting whole new planes. Whole new engines." There was a pause. They finished off their beer and ordered another round. "You in it for the long haul then?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Haven't really thought about it. Probably why I'm still here, 'cause I didn't want to think about it. Staying was easy. Pick an airfield, collect your train ticket, report to command."

"I would've done the same. If they hadn't messed up my leg."

"Bastards," Collins cursed into his glass, a smile pulling on his lips. Farrier smiled along with him.

"They let you pick your station?"

"Not outright but we could state a preference." Farrier nodded. When Collins didn't elaborate, he raised an eyebrow. It was late now. The pub had emptied apart from them. Silences felt heavy but each word now carried through the otherwise quite pub, echoing off the walls, dampened only by the tinkering of glasses by the barkeep. It felt just as odd to speak as it did to stay quiet. "What?"

"Highlands weren't calling?"

"Nah, once they got rid of me, they realized what a tosser I was."

"And that was that."

"That was that. Choirs were given leave."

"Why Norfolk?"

"No real reason," he shrugged. "Don't know much of England really. May have heard you mention it a few times." Collins bobbed his head back and forth. His cheeks pinkened under the warm spot light that hung low over the bar.

Farrier smiled. It was a little thing. But it had to be little. "It's a nice place."

"It's a nice place," Collins echoed.

"Should you be getting back to base?"

"Don't know." There was a certain inflection to this that Farrier would describe as a challenge. Or a tease. Do you think I should be getting back?

"They don't need you 'till morning."

Collins turned to looked at him. "They don't need me 'till morning."

Farrier swallowed what was left of his drink and set the glass down. "Take your time. Standing is a process these days."

"Aye," Collins agreed but quickly shot back his own drink. "Should I order another? Give you some time to get up those stairs?"

* * *

Collins' hand reappeared behind him as they climbed the steep and narrow staircase behind the front desk. The hotel was quiet apart from the weathered creek of their footsteps. The evening rush of guests returning from dusk strolls along the boardwalk had long tucked themselves into bed. Faint music cut with radio static came from a room on the second floor. Something soft. It was a waltz. Something his grandparents would have danced to, the static of the gramophone dampened by the living room carpet under their feet.

Farrier unlocked the door to his room and shuffled in. Collins caught it behind him as he followed and closed it gently so as not to stir the hotel and its guests. "Still have the tidiest bunk," Collins said, leaning back against the door, his hand in the front pocket of his trousers. It wouldn't pass inspection but that was easy to hide in the dark.

A cool breeze drifted through the open window.

"Cigarette?"

Collins smiled and kicked himself off the door. He sat on the desk beneath the window, on leg curled in front of him, the other dangling out into night. Farrier sat beside him, his back to the water.

Farrier put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and passed it to Collins. Collins inhaled and leaned his head back against the window frame, his eyes drifting over the sea.

"I flew out over that ocean a hundred times. Wheels up at dusk. Away from the setting sun. Black flooded the sky like a poison. It grew more lethal with each passing year. We would have been somewhere over Holland by now but you'd never know it. It was just more black. On a bombing run to Italy one night, a civilian below had a torch or something and was shining it up at the sky as we passed. They were flicking it on and off. Dot, dot, dot, dash." He passed the cigarette back to Farrier.

"V. For victory."

"And in a few hours time we rained bombs on hundreds of other civilians."

"The bombers rained bombs."

"Technicality."

Farrier knew that was true. There was a comradery in the skies. Spitfires, Hurricans, Halifaxes, they flew as one united front, a storm cloud. Each was an individual droplet of water but together, they could summon the furry of the ancient Gods.

They were quiet then, their conversation continuing in the passing of the cigarette.

Farrier shivered as a strong gust of wind blew over his shoulder. "Bugger," Collins said. The cigarette hung loosely from his teeth, the glowing tip snuffed. Farrier smiled and pulled the lighter from his pocket. Collins leaned forwards and Farrier sideways until the flame hovered in front of the charred and ashy tip. The flame flickered in the breeze, illuminating the blue of Collins' eyes before they fell back into shadow as if each day since Dunkirk was waxing and waning before him.

Farrier brought his hand up to shield the flame and his finger tip brushed the smooth skin of Collins' jaw. He shivered again, though this time he felt warmth not chill. With steady eyes, those that had locked onto a target, Farrier waited and watched. The cigarette dropped lower on Collins' lips as if it had been forgotten. Farrier snapped the lighter closed and with his index and middle finger, pulled the cigarette away. He leaned closer.

Collins twitched and turned away. "I should go."

Collins stood, crossed the room, and opened the door. Farrier couldn't stop him. He couldn't speak. The door closed softly. It was too quiet. It was too quiet and too still. He couldn't breathe. His chest was tight, everything inside twisted and threatening to burst.

He hadn't seen the wall. It had been obscured by grey smog, each passed cigarette, each smile, each lingering glance another dew droplet weighed down by the ashy smoke and mirror game he had manufactured in the POW camp. He had been lured forward, caught in the enchantment of the softened light and dampened sound. The world had shrunk to a few feet in each direction, a little pocket carved perfectly for him. There was no war. There were no nurses or girls on the beach. There was no laid-out path. He could go where he wanted. But he had lost his way, crossed into enemy territory, face to face with a row rifles. His ears rang and his body convulsed as the flames he had ignited closed around him.

He would burn. He needed out.

Farrier grabbed his coat and left the room. He pulled the door closed roughly so that the knob rattled in his hand. He looked up the road, towards the airfield, then turned and walked the other way. He took the stairs down to sand to get closer to the waves. They crashed around him, the salty mist on his face, the roar in his ears. It was like drowning.


	5. Chapter 5

The caw of gulls woke him the next morning. They were louder than usual. He opened his eyes slowly, disoriented by the wall of grey. He wasn't in his room. He wasn't in his bed. He sat up. His neck was stiff. The tendons warmed and strained as he looked around. The lighthouse loomed above him, its red and white stripes disappearing into low lying fog. The ocean spilled onto the sand just feet from his shoes. A gull landed on the rocks behind him and hopped closer. Farrier stood before it could reach him.

He walked back towards town. The faint outline of person appeared in the fog a head of him. The person was still, looking out at the water. It wasn't much of a view. A device stood in the sand in-front of them. They were tinkering with it.

"'Mornin'" Collins said.

Farrier looked back to the figure, close enough now that he could make out the blond hair and the uniform. He should have given him a wider birth and slipped passed unnoticed.

"You're out early."

"Swim."

Collins looked him over but nodded. "That's good for your leg. Build back the strength."

"Pilots 'round here need pulling out every now and again."

Collins dropped his head but Farrier could see the smile. "Coffee?" He offered the mug he had been holding against his chest. "I got a thermos in my pack."

Farrier hesitated. He didn't know his place. But Collins wasn't running so he stepped closer and reached for the mug. Their hands brushed over the exchange. Collins' was warm. He watched him closely, waiting for the twitch. But there was no recoil.

"Still that acorn shit," he said after taking a sip. He settled next to him, shoulder to shoulder and looked towards the water. The fog was so thick he wasn't sure if he could actually see it.

"Only the best."

"Can't remember what real coffee tastes like."

"We'll get so used to this we won't like the real stuff when we get it back."

"We'll get so used to being soldiers we won't know what to do without a war."

"Good thing there's another one on the horizon. They're saying Greece is about to collapse. They're getting planes ready to send."

"Not saying much. Greece is always about collapse."

"Fucking true, ain't it." Collins laughed. "We just got done pulling their royal family out and now we're back at it pulling out another set."

Farrier brought the mug to his mouth to hide his smile. He liked making Collins laugh. "That first round all went a became Nazis."

"Shit." Collins turned towards him and grabbed his arm. "I forgot about that. Fuck."

"Just call it a day mate." Farrier shrugged, moving his arm against Collins' grip, settling into it.

"You've made your mark. Western Civilization. The Olympics. Aristotle."

"But now it's just Nazis."

"Now it's just Nazis." Collins dropped his hand and thread it through his hair. "It's not a good look if the founder of Western Civilization is no longer in the West."

"Neither is atomic war." He waved the mug at the apparatus standing in front of them. "What're you doing?"

"Ah, RADAR," Collins said turning back to the instrument. "ASI is still unreliable so we're using RADAR to record the speed. Everything has to be verified. Pencil pusher crap until my wrist heals."

"They're flying in this?"

"Na. Fog'll burn off in an hour or so. I come down early so the girls don't spot me. Even asked if I could wear civilian clothing."

Farrier laughed. "Dedicated bunch."

"What about you? When your leg heals. The guys said you asked about re-upping."

"Na. Wasn't thinking straight." Farrier stepped away, towards the pack Collins had set on a rock. He pulled out the coffee thermos and refilled the mug he had emptied. "I don't know if this will ever heal."

"If you actually go for that swim, it might."

Farrier took a small sip and then handed the full mug back to Collins. Steam rose off the black surface obscuring his face and mixed with fog hanging in air around them.

"We could use you," Collins said.

Farrier shook his head. "I haven't flown since Dunkirk." The fog held his words. They sat on the cool, dewy air in front of him and slowly seeped around him. He couldn't run but he didn't want to. He waited for the panic but it did not come. The air was fresh and opened his lungs. The world had narrowed to the small pocket of beach where he stood next to Collins. "I know nothing about the Battle of London or the Bombing of Dresden. I don't know Soviet tactics. I spent the war in a camp. It doesn't feel like my air force anymore." His shoulders dropped as he said it. It was defeat but it was also release.

Farrier had joined the air force in 1921. He was 20 and the RAF was still in its infancy. His superiors were transfers from the Flying Corps and the Naval Air Service after the restructuring following the Great War. He was one of the first true RAF pilots whose allegiance was to the sky and not the infantry or ships below. He had flown Buzzards, and Snipes, and Nighthawks. He had grown up with the fleet and was one of the first pilots to take up the new Spitfires in 1938. When the war brought a wave of new recruits, Farrier had trained them. They were young men, searching for their place in the world. They would not find it amongst hostile skies but Farrier vowed to show them something else, the grace and ingenuity of the planes, the comradery of a squadron, the endlessness of an open sky. But he had been captured and in those four years, the RAF had been tested more and grown more than it ever had in the previous two decades. Pilots, tactics, planes, history, it was all different now. He didn't recognize it. He wasn't apart of it. It was no longer his.

"It was just chaos, mate. Nothing to know. Just bombs and guns and smoke everywhere. The Soviets are daft. It won't take a day to get caught up there. At least when it comes to the air. The Americans are running the show now anyways. We all feel a little usurped."

"Who gave them the right."

There was a pause before Collins answered. "King George, I reckon." Farrier turned, surprised by the answer. Collins was holding the mug in front of his face but a quirk of a smile peaked out from behind it. "Well really it was the atomic bombs but on D-Day, rumor is Georgie wanted to cross with the troops. Parliament wouldn't let him. Churchill wanted to hog all the glory. Could you imagine it though? That would have sealed Britain's fate. The picture of him planting a flag or whatever would have gone down in history."

Farrier chuckled. "Thought you were a republican."

"Bigger enemy."

"The Americans?"

Collins nodded and looked at him. "I'll take an Englishman any day."

Farrier raised an eyebrow. Was this another offer? Collins didn't waver. "Bit out of touch, don't you think?" That wasn't enough. Not after last night. "Kings leading the charge. In the last war everyone thought the Tzar had lost it. And you said it, it would have been a photo shoot. Overshadowed the soldiers. And the resources diverted to keep him safe…"

"Would have been worth it."

"You sure?"

"Aye, Farrier." He tipped the rest of the coffee into his mouth and stepped back to his pack. He sat down on the rock beside it. "We're lost up there."

"What are you looking for?"

"I don't know anymore."

"A way of the fog?"

"I don't think is there is a way out. Not anymore."

Farrier turned around. Collins' shoulders were slumped and his good hand clung to the empty coffee mug. The flap of his pack was left flung open beside him, various contents spilling out onto the sand, pencil, notebook, flare gun, empty cigarette box. His body rocked back and forth. Maybe that was Farrier's imagination, a frame from a different reel cut out and stitched into this one in time with the steady roll of the waves.

Farrier tucked his cane under his arm and pulled out his lighter and a cigarette. He placed it between his teeth and lit it. "There never was. We just kept lighting the world on fire and burning it off." He stepped towards Collins and placed the cigarette on his lips. "Through the night, it always resettled. Might be best to navigate it for a bit."

Collins inhaled deeply. He set the mug down and took the cigarette from his mouth to exhale.

A roar sounded from up the beach and grew louder and louder. Farrier turned back to the water and the sound of the plane. "I should go. Gotta get back before my leg gives out."

A hand knocked the back of his knee. Collins held the cigarette up for him. "Come back tomorrow. We'll go for that swim."

Farrier returned the next day as instructed. It was foggy again but Collins was easy to spot. His arm was wrapped in stiff neon orange fabric. "Bit garish."

"Old life-vest," Collins shrugged. "Keeps the cast dry. Works alright in the shower."

Farrier blinked away the image of Collins in the shower. Injured Collins, who may need assistance. "That water's freezing."

"You managed it alright the other day."

"You were drowning."

"Well we'll see how this arm hold up."

Farrier furrowed his brow. "Don't be doing stupid shit."

"Ah, Farrier. Too late for that. I raided the uniform cupboard." He reached for his pack and pulled out a pair of sweatpants and a jumper. They looked warm. And soft. And clean. "Something for after."

"Alright," Farrier smiled. He looked out at the water. It was like glass, still and smooth. It was waiting for them, patiently. It could be deceiving them, louring them from the sand. "Plot us a course."

"To the pier and back."

Farrier sat down on the rock behind him and slipped off his shoes. He followed his foot prints in the wet sand, uneven, escorted by a perfectly round circle, until they disappeared into the fog. The pier was nowhere in sight. It was far. Farrier wondered if he would have thought so five years ago. He pulled off his trousers and then his shirt, setting them on the rock beside him. Collins navy battledress fell on top.

His body was lean. There was more muscle than Farrier remembered. His white cotton shorts hung low, framing his hip bones. They jutted out from his thighs as if his torso was a plate of armour. The smooth groove created beneath was the perfect place to rest his thumbs as he curled his fingers around his waist.

Collins reached out his hand. Farrier took it and allowed himself to be pulled up, leaving his cane resting against the rock. They walked into the water. The chill stung, cutting his skin as if its surface really was glass. It was paralyzing. Collins waded further though so Farrier followed. With each step, the salt water lifted more of his body, forming a brace around his leg. His limp straightened. When the water crept around their shoulders, Collins dove under in the direction of the pier. Farrier took a deep breath and did the same.

The pins and pricks faded until his limbs were numb. He wasn't in pain though. Adrenalin had kicked in. It wasn't carrying him to a drowning pilot. It was carrying him to the man in front of him.

He kept pace with Collins to the pier. Collins swam to the far post but he turned at the first, holding it for a moment to catch his breath. He was slower heading back. Collin pulled out of view at one point. He didn't know if he managed to catch up or if Collins had noticed and waited.

His lungs ached and his arms grew heavy and limp. He closed his eyes and imagined fire rising behind him as the enemy closed in on his burning plane. Bullets whizzed past his head. Home was just across the Channel. He could swim it. He could swim it.

"Woah, watch the wrist," Collins winced. He stood facing Farrier in waist deep water beneath the lighthouse.

Delirious, Farrier had swum into him. "Sorry, sorry." Farrier stood and reached for the arm Collins had tucked to his chest.

"You're bleeding." Collins grabbed his hand and inspected his palm. A long red sliver ran through the middle. Blood seeped from it and pooled in the cup of his hand. Collins guided it down and dipped it back into the water to wash away the excess blood. He inspected it again. "Doesn't look too deep."

"Must've been the barnacles on the pier."

Collins swiped his thumb across the cut. Farrier tensed, expecting a sting. But his touch was soft. He cleared the blood from the wound again and lifted the hand to his lips. The kiss was light but lingered against his raw skin. Farrier looked up. Collins' eyes blinked open. A water droplet clung to the tip of his long lashes. His blue eyes were clear and vibrant against the grey surround as if they had stolen all the colour, as if they held at the world in their depths. But it wasn't time to fight for that light. It was time to live in the grey.

Farrier eased his hand out of Collins' hold. "All better."

"I have bandages in my pack," Collins said. He turned and waded back to shore.

Farrier followed. The thin cotton of Collins' white shorts had gone transparent and clung to his ass. It was round and firm and concave on the sides where the muscle built up. Farrier's stomach dropped and his throat tightened. He felt guilty and dropped his eyes to the water.

Collins tossed him the sweat pants and jumper and pulled on his own uniform. Farrier let him wrap a bandage around his hand before walking back into town. "See you tomorrow." It was the least he could do.

They swam every morning until the waters grew warm under the summer sun. When Collins' wrist healed and he was moved off RADAR duty and put back in a plane, they swam earlier so he could make it back to base. When the water turned cold again they started running instead. They ran the length of the boardwalk, starting from the hotel, past the pier, half way to the lighthouse and back again. Then they ran further, down the road, all the way to the base. Farrier's cane lived on the coat hook on the back of his door. He didn't take it to London for his meeting at the RAF offices. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used it. He passed his recertification and by March he had moved into the barracks.

* * *

' _The gravity of the situation which confronts the world today necessitates my appearance before a joint session of the Congress. The foreign policy and the national security of this country are involved._

 _One aspect of the present situation, which I wish to present to you at this time for your consideration and decision, concerns Greece and Turkey._

 _The United States has received from the Greek Government an urgent appeal for financial and economic assistance…'_

The BBC was playing President Truman's address to Congress. Farrier's attention cut in and out from the radio like static. He lay on his back, staring up at the rotating blades of the ceiling fan. They spun slow. Too slow. If you could follow the motion of an individual blade, you would fall out of the sky.

'… _The British Government, which has been helping Greece, can give no further financial or economic aid after March 31. Great Britain finds itself under the necessity of reducing or liquidating its commitments in several parts of the world, including Greece..._

… _Since the war Turkey has sought financial assistance from Great Britain and the United States for the purpose of effecting that modernization necessary for the maintenance of its national integrity…_

… _The British government has informed us that, owing to its own difficulties can no longer extend financial or economic aid to Turkey…'_

Now, there were no blades.

'… _As in the case of Greece, if Turkey is to have the assistance it needs, the United States must supply it..._

… _I believe that it must be the policy of the United States to support free peoples who are resisting attempted subjugation by armed minorities or by outside pressures...'_

"Ready for your lesson?"

Farrier hummed a non-response.

Collins walked down the neat row of cots, an un-lit cigarette dangled from his mouth. He reached Farrier's cot and switched off the radio that sat on his bedside table.

"Oi."

"We got more important things." Farrier's flight jacket hung on the bed post and Collin's dug his hand into the front pocket and pulled out his lighter.

"That was important," Farrier said. Collins rolled his eyes and lit the cigarette. "America just handed out a blank check to the world al la Kaiser Bill."

"Aye." He returned the lighter and tossed the jacket onto Farrier's lap. "So we should get our flying ace back in the air." Before Farrier could protest, Collins popped the cigarette into his mouth. "Hanger. Three minutes." Collins patted his leg before walking back out of the barracks.

Farrier watched him leave. His boot steps were heavy, his shoulders back, stride long. He ran his fingers through his hair and then slipped his hand into the pocket on his trousers. He looked confident, more confident than Farrier had ever seen him. He inhaled sharply. The nicotine was warm and coated the back of his throat.

He stood, put on his jacket, and walked out to the hanger.

They walked around L-London, their plane for the morning, an engineer guiding them through the final checks before Farrier climbed into the front cockpit. Collins climbed into the rear and they taxied to the runway.

"Set the trim to neutral," Collins said over the radio in his ear.

"Trim to neutral."

"Open the high and low fuel cocks. The low cock is tricky. Ye' have to reach 'round the center control. Doesn't like to be moved."

Farrier twisted his arm and gave it a good tug. "Fuel cocks open."

"Activate booster pump."

"Booster pump activated."

"Set the flaps."

"Flaps set."

"Retract the air brakes."

"Air brakes retracted."

"We're good."

"Control, this is L-London requesting takeoff."

"Clear." The red light on the control tower switched to green.

"Watch the jets," Collins said.

The ocean pooled at the end of the runway. It beckoned him forth as if had when Collins' had gone down and when they had stood on the beach in their shorts contemplating a swim. But it was a lie. The ocean wasn't calling. It was the sky that called, its message reflected upon the waves.

Farrier opened the throttle and they zoomed down the runway far quicker than he anticipated. It was like being shot out of a canon, zero to one hundred before he could take a breath. His body was slammed against the seat so hard he expected to be blown back into the second cockpit and into Collins' lap.

"Don't say I didn't warn ye'," Collins laughed as Farrier eased the control column up and a cushion of air caught the underside of the wings, lifting them off the ground.

"Christ."

He lifted the left aileron and the plane banked right, making for the beach. Collins talked him through the controls as they passed over the pier and the lighthouse. They were different to his Spitfire and the plane was more responsive. It had been six years but flying was flying and flying was home.

"Alright, give it go," Collins said.

 _Your waiting for flames to engulf it._ _The controls have a mind of their own._

Farrier opened the throttle. He felt the acceleration, the pressure on his chest. He glanced at the ASI. It climbed. 700m/hr. 800. 850. It started to jump and wouldn't settle. Everything shook. The vibrations ran up his leg and it throbbed. The horizon bounced and twisted and blurred out of focus and he lost it. The plane was moving too fast and world too slow and Farrier was caught in the middle, being ripped apart at the seams.

The plane banked left. He fought the center column and pulled it right. The plane banked further to the left. They were losing height. He was losing control.

Farrier pulled back on the throttle and jammed his foot on the right rudder. The plane jolted back to center. They were feet above the water and Farrier took a shaky breath as he climbed to a more familiar altitude. That recovery wouldn't have been possible in his Spitfire.

"Madness."

"It's just a bit o' turbulence," Collins laughed. Farrier could hear the waver in his voice. "Have another go."

"You have a death wish."

"Oh I have a wish, Farrier."

Instead of circling back to the airfield, Farrier banked left over the ocean and then climbed through the clouds. He squinted, the sun's rays were blinding after being conceal for so long. He banked the plane north and as they turned away from the sun, the blue sky panned across his wingspan, crisp and vivid, not a hint of grey.

They fixed the glass and the plane's design was tighter, greatly improving the pilot's sight lines. And still, as they flew, Farrier's eyes were drawn to the odometer. Thirty-five miles from base and they would lose radio communication with the controller. They would be alone. It was their own sound barrier.

"Where're we goin'?"

Farrier took a breath. "I used to watch the odometer after takeoff. I would watch until we passed out of radio range. And then neither of us said anything."

He waited then, watching the odometer and keeping the heading north-east. It would be only minutes but in an open sky, minutes stretched out to infinity.

The odometer clicked over.

"There was a moment when I went down in the Channel, I was trapped and the cockpit had flooded." Collins spoke quietly and slowly, as if he was thinking over each word. "I had taken my last breath. I closed my eyes and hoped it would be over quickly. I imagined you pulling me out. That you had jumped and had somehow got the hatch open. You were always able to get me out of a jam. Ended up being some kid on a boat. He smashed the glass with a fishing net hook and was holding it out for me. Took me a moment to realise it wasn't you. You saw me through each run, Farrier."

Farrier swallowed. He recognized those visions of deliverance. "Collins."

"Go again."

"Jack." Farrier said. He wished the takeoff had blown him back. He wished he could look Collins in the eye. He felt resistance in the controls. Collins was holding them. "Y-your-" Farrier stopped himself. Collins didn't want the plane. He opened the throttle.

"Tom."

The plane accelerated and shook. The vibrations ran through his body, up his spine and down his arm. This time though, he had a ground. The control column remained steady under the grip of two. The vibrations radiated instead through the shackles and the chains and he heard them clatter to the floor. It was as if the headwind suddenly died, the drag cut in half as the vestige of Collins he had carried with him through the war burned up in the rays of the sun behind him.

They flew faster and faster and then there was a pop and everything was still and calm. They had pushed through the wall and it fell before them creating a smooth pocket of air that carried them forwards. It felt like floating.

"Holy shit."

"Holy shit," Farrier echoed.

When they landed and taxied back to the hanger, Farrier's hand had cramped around the control column. He pried his fingers away and climbed out of the cockpit.

"How'd she fly?" the engineer asked.

"Good. Real good," Collins answered.

"What did you get up to?"

Collins' eyes drifted to his and did not leave as he continued the debrief. "The usual. Turbulence. Dive recovery."

Farrier massaged his hand and watched as Collins grew more and more impatient, rocking back and forth on his feet, his hands balled in his trouser pockets. He lit a cigarette and walked towards Collins. The engineer had disappeared around the back of the plane, his questions echoing through the tin structure. Farrier placed the cigarette between Collins' lips, and snaked a hand around his waist. "Come find me."

He walked out to the low stone wall that surrounded the air field and looked out over the ocean. The breeze did its best to wash away the previous six years. It would never succeed. Farrier was okay with that.

Foot steps grew softly in the grass behind him. He turned around and Collins walked towards him without hesitation. He removed the cigarette from Collins' mouth, pulled his hips close, and kissed him, hard at first but then soft as Collins' body melted into his.

* * *

The days after came quickly. They were moved to Germany. From Bad Oeynhausen, the capital of the British zone, they listened to the BBC coverage of Princess Elizabeth's wedding to Philip.

"Guess not all the Greeks became Nazis," Collins said.

"A Mountbatten's not much better."

They sat on Farrier's cot. Farrier rested against the head board, Collins against the footboard so as not to arise too much suspicion. Collins' foot often ended up in his lap and Farrier often massaged it idly while they listened to the radio that sat on the bedside table.

Snow fell outside the barracks in late December as they listened through the static of King Michael's forced to abdication and flee to Switzerland.

"I remember the day he flipped," Collins said, nursing a cigarette. "He sent the Americans working their way through Italy coordinates to all the SS command centers in Bucharest. Eleven hundred hours, he requested. The planes flew over on the dot and bombed out every building. The shouts from the American barracks, you would have thought the war was over."

"Kick out one dictator, get swallowed by another."

"When does it end."

Farrier looked across at Collins. He was around the same age as the deposed King. Far too young to have faced such horrors. Far too young to fade into the hopeless grey.

Apart from the Gatow Air Disaster, it was quiet until summer. The door to the barracks burst open the morning of June 25th. "Farrier. Collins. Command, five minutes."

They dressed quickly, Collins in his navy battledress, Farrier in his flight jacket. "It's happened. They've put in the blockade," the flight commander said. "They aren't just delaying shipments anymore. Four days ago they turned around an American supply train. They've loaded the cargo onto planes in Frankfurt. We're flying everything in. The Americans are short on personnel so you're flying support. Support only. Do not shoot unless shot at. You'll meet the cargo plane in Frankfurt and escort it into Tempelhof and back again."

They walked from command to the hanger. The maintenance crew was already doing final checks on the two Vampires. Farrier followed Collins around the back of one of the planes. "If they shoot, that's open war," Collins said. "They wouldn't chance it."

Farrier nodded. He looked around for prying eyes before steeling a kiss. "Wouldn't chance it."

He wasn't so sure but he knew Collins wasn't either. The Soviets flew their fighters like buzzards around the West Berlin airfields. They were there to intimidate and to distract the incoming planes trying to maneuver the tight corridors between the apartment blocks and down onto the runways that were too narrow and too short. But now that their commanders were intent on starving out the city…

The red light on the control tower turned green and Farrier followed Collins down the runway and into the air. They flew South and then East, towards Frankfurt and then Berlin, beyond the Iron Curtain, into the unknown. But in to it together.


End file.
